Classic Poem

When the viol hath been strung,
And the master's hand hath wrung
Speech from every hermit tongue
That unseen dwells
Within its cells;
Hoarse its voices until taught
With its rapture to consort,
Or, in sweet concent, to show
Sympathy with human woe.

Then, in their retiredness,
Craving constantly to bless
Air and ear with tuneful stress,
Each mellower grows
In its repose,
Till a fuller choral swell,
And a softer waning spell,
Are the echoes that respond
To the master's magic wand.

When the viol's tones aspire
Upward, like the breath of fire,
Does the master's soul inspire
Alone its sighs
And symphonies?
Or do angels with the strain
Seek their long-lost home again,
Soaring in melodious throng
On the pinions of his song?

When a friend hath ceased to groan,
While we o'er his coffin moan,
And deplore his spirit flown,
Dare we maintain
That ne'er again
Shall that unstrung harp be wound
And the Master's glory sound?
May not, then, the lute enshrine
Unseen spirits half divine?